Memory

There is a sadness at the heart of memory.
It is the impulse to preserve the moment
in vinegar. To pickle the essence in the cell’s
core and relive its taste at will in forlorn hope
of improving it. Polishing time…

The old man knows that the living wonder
is missing. It plagues his untenanted days.
His thin dry lips burn in desperate, feeble
recollection. The image recedes inexorably,
along with him; dissipating slowly like the
moist warmth from his park bench.